I saw death, it was not my master. Death is an image. It is the image of God above me, me in tears. Lying, waiting for his foot ends to crush me as it began at my birth, with the lower muscles of my mother.
That's what death is this painting, and what quantities of tears we must cry to defeat the oil from its support and kill god to breathe again.
A march towards the wall, torture in solitude. This transcendence
annihilates both expansions of the heart through the body in the aftermath of the murder I float a stultifying cynicism, as a child in the garden that has long forgotten the cries of suffering of his entering the world.
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